Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works eBook

She took the sleeping draught gratefully, making a
face, like a child after a powder.

“How long do you think it’ll be before
I can play again? Oh! I forgot—­there
are other things to think about.” She held
out her hand to me. “Look at my ring.
Married—­isn’t it funny? Ha,
ha! Nobody will ever understand—­that’s
funny too! Poor Gran! You see, there wasn’t
any reason—­only me. That’s
the only reason I’m telling you now; Mums is
there—­but she doesn’t count; why don’t
you count, Mums?”

The fever was fighting against the draught; she had
tossed the clothes back from her throat, and now and
then raised one thin arm a little, as if it eased
her; her eyes had grown large, and innocent like a
child’s; the candle, too, had flared, and was
burning clearly.

“Nobody is to tell him—­nobody at
all; promise...! If I hadn’t slipped,
it would have been different. What would have
happened then? You can’t tell; and I can’t—­that’s
funny! Do you think I loved him? Nobody
marries without love, do they? Not quite without
love, I mean. But you see I wanted to be free,
he said he’d take me; and now he’s left
me after all! I won’t be left, I can’t!
When I came to the cliff—­that bit where
the ivy grows right down—­there was just
the sea there, underneath; so I thought I would throw
myself over and it would be all quiet; and I climbed
on a ledge, it looked easier from there, but it was
so high, I wanted to get back; and then my foot slipped;
and now it’s all pain. You can’t
think much, when you’re in pain.”

From her eyes I saw that she was dropping off.

“Nobody can take you away from-yourself.
He’s not to be told—­not even—­I
don’t—­want you—­to go away,
because—­” But her eyes closed, and
she dropped off to sleep.

They don’t seem to know this morning whether
she is better or worse....

VI

“Tuesday, 9th August.

It seems more like three weeks than three days since
I wrote. The time passes slowly in a sickhouse...!
The doctors were here this morning, they give her
forty hours. Not a word of complaint has passed
her lips since she knew. To see her you would
hardly think her ill; her cheeks have not had time
to waste or lose their colour. There is not much
pain, but a slow, creeping numbness.... It was
John Ford’s wish that she should be told.
She just turned her head to the wall and sighed; then
to poor old Mrs. Hopgood, who was crying her heart
out: “Don’t cry, Mums, I don’t
care.”

When they had gone, she asked for her violin.
She made them hold it for her, and drew the bow across
the strings; but the notes that came out were so trembling
and uncertain that she dropped the bow and broke into
a passion of sobbing. Since then, no complaint
or moan of any kind....

But to go back. On Sunday, the day after I wrote,
as I was coming from a walk, I met a little boy making
mournful sounds on a tin whistle.